R.A.D. Stainforth contemplates scent ...
Summer nights,
I wake to your scent,
stubborn as marigolds,
near the bureau
that kept your lipstick
and perfume.
I try to dream again,
but stumble
bleary-eyed,
to the toilet.
My face finds yours,
cold in the mirror,
your breasts
heavy in quicksilver;
you smile, dab a bit
